


8th Annual 25 Days of Hurt!Sam

by Center_of_the_Galaxy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Holiday themed Hurt/Comfort!, Holidays, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt Sam is my jam, Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, requests are open!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27412732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Center_of_the_Galaxy/pseuds/Center_of_the_Galaxy
Summary: A collection of holiday themed hurt/comfort stories featuring Sam. REQUESTS ARE CLOSED!
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 34
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1: Over The Years

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Welcome to the 8th Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam! Eight years ago, I started this challenge over on Fanfiction.net and I've been doing it every year since. This collection allows me to give back to the fanfic community and I so love to do it! 
> 
> Please follow the following guidelines if you wish to submit a request! 
> 
> 1) No M-rated prompts. Nothing sexual or smut or rape or anything like that. If your request makes me uncomfortable, I have a right to refuse it. 
> 
> 2) Your prompt must revolve around Sam! He must be the one receiving the brunt of the hurt/comfort. That being said, you can go ahead and ask for other characters as long as Sam is the priority.
> 
> 3) I am a gen author. I don't write slash, but canon pairings are okay. 
> 
> 4) Your prompt must revolve around the holidays! Any aspect of the holiday season is fine, but please make sure your prompt really incorporates something about the season.
> 
> 5) You can be as detailed or not as you'd like. 
> 
> 6) Please only leave one request! I want to write as many stories as I can for as many people as I can. 
> 
> I hope we all have a great time! Please enjoy :)

* * *

_“It's coming on Christmas  
They're cutting down trees   
They're putting up reindeer   
And singing songs of joy and peace   
I wish I had a river I could skate away on.”_

_—James Taylor, “River”_

* * *

Sam is eight when the though first pops into his head.

He knows that his family is different from others. He knows that his mother is dead and that he must never speak of her to their father. He understands that Christmas is a tiny, deformed tree that Dean got on the cheap and newspaper wrapped presents while their dad sleeps off his hangover. This is his normal, but deep down, his heart holds questions. His classmates never move as much as he does nor do they have Christmases celebrated with Charlie Brown Christmas trees.

“We’re different,” Dean tells his little brother with a soft smile, “This is just our life.”

And maybe, when he thinks back on it, that’s when things started to shift ever so slightly.

* * *

Sam is ten when he spends his first Christmas in the emergency room.

He has stiches in his stomach that burn whenever he tries to shift his body in his uncomfortable hospital bed. The thin, baby blue blanket, covers him, fraying at the edge. Through a medicated fog, he tries to remember how he even ended up here.

“You can cry,” John tells him softly, a worn smirk on his lips, “You’ve got stiches.”

Maybe Sam will when he wakes up tomorrow, but all he can process now is that he hurts and he wants his big brother to hold him.

“Where’s Dean?”

John’s lips thin into a tight line, his brow furrows, “Don’t worry, Sammy. He’s fine.”

“I want him.”

For a brief second, John’s gaze darkens, but it vanishes as fast as it appears, “I know, kiddo. He’ll be here.”

And to his credit, Dean does get there the next morning, tired, slightly bruised, but still wearing a grin.

He’s 14 when he spends Christmas Eve in the lair of a werewolf.

Tied up with garland, the werewolf—a woman with a jolly, light up Christmas sweater—prepares to eat him for her holiday dinner.

“It’s nothing personal, dear,” She calls out to him as she stares at him in the makeshift cell, “We all have to eat, don’t we?”

Sam tries his best to break out, but the more he rubs, the more his wrists get raw and he winces as he feels the material cut into his skin. He’s a hunter, trained for this situation, but fear consumes him. He wants to go home. He wants Christmas with his father and his brother and their deformed tree.

He doesn’t want to die.

“Sammy!”

Gunshots ring out in the room and Sam shuts his eyes, waiting, hoping that this will end. The cell door clatters open and warm arms grab him, hands searching for injuries. He meets his brother’s panicked gaze and slumps over, burying his face in the crook of his neck, as Dean grips him.

“Dean!” Tears sting his eyes.

“Sammy, you okay? You hurt?”

“Just bruises,” He holds his brother for dear life, trying to ground himself and gain control over his rampaging emotions, “She dead?”

“She’s gone,” Dean assures him, “I have you. C’mon.”

Somehow, Sam manages to stand and he walks out with his brother.

He spends the rest of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day passed out on meds.

* * *

He’s 18 when he spends Christmas alone, in the frigid dorm room at Stanford.

There’s no phone call, though Sam wonders if he should breach the divide. In the end though, he drinks eggnog and tries to sleep.

Merry fucking Christmas.

* * *

Christmases pass.

Sam grows and learns and loses. His heart gets broken and he dies—a few times—but there’s only one constant.

“Fever down, Sammy?”

He’s 38 now and has seen more than anyone in life should. Yet, even he is reduced to being couchbound by a nasty cold. Dean still hovers, a mother hen as always, and fusses, making sure the blanket tucked around him isn’t too tight. He places a hand on Sam’s forehead, frowning.

“No?”

“More meds for you.” His older brother smirks, handing him some pills and a glass of water.

“Dean?”

“Hmmm?”

“You don’t need to hover. I can handle this.”

His big brother rolls his eyes, “Sure.”

Sam huffs out a laugh but it dissolves into a cough. It wracks his body, making his lungs burn and his eyes water. Dean is there, rubbing comforting circles just like he used to do all those years ago.

Some things never change.

“Dean?”

Emerald eyes meet his, “Yeah?”

“Merry Christmas.”

Faint Christmas songs filter into the room as the sad Charlie Brown tree sparkles.

Dean beams, “Merry Christmas, Sammy.”


	2. Powerless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam loses his voice and discovers something important as he and Dean celebrate Christmas in San Francisco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! With my birthday just having passed and Supernatural now over (which I may or may not be in denial about), I wanted to put this chapter out early. 
> 
> This is the last call for requests, so please submit them before December 1st! This chapter is a request from AngelofGrace96 who asked for “Sam gets cursed to silence by a witch while out buying presents and Dean just thinks he's being sulky about the demon deal (season 3)”.

* * *

_“For it's Christmas by the bay_

_The fog is just a memory_

_To return again in May_

_It's Christmas by the bay_

_Where the sights and the stars above_

_Are inviting us to stay.”_

_—Tim Hockenberry, “Christmas By The Bay”_

* * *

Dean wanted to spend Christmas in San Francisco.

Normally, Sam would be on board with this, but considering the circumstances, the youngest Winchester thought the time could be better spent on research.

“Nah, Sammy,” Dean told him with a smirk, “No working on Christmas. It’s a rule.”

Sam rolled his eyes, “Since when?”

For as long as he could remember, Sam had spent Christmas in some cold, empty house with a dented Christmas tree and presents wrapped in newspaper. Those Christmases weren’t horrible, not by any means, but they weren’t the Christmases he had seen on TV. Those weren’t the Christmases that he’d longed for ever since he realized just how different his life was from others.

But this year, all Sam wanted for Christmas was to save his big brother.

Dean wouldn’t be swayed and they drove off to the city by the bay, greeted by twinkling lights of the Golden Gate Bridge as it sparkled over the water. It was a lovely sight—he’d been here once before with Jessica by his side, but he’d always wanted to enjoy the sights with his brother.

“Would you look at it?” Dean smirked, “Pretty damn magical.”

“Magical?” Sam scoffed, guilt eating away at him. If he had just stayed dead—

“Yeah, magical.” His brother interjected sharply, eyes flashing somewhat with annoyance.

—none of this would’ve happened. Dean would be alive and not sentenced to an eternity in Hell.

So, Sam said nothing and turned up the cheery Christmas music playing from the Impala’s speakers.

* * *

_“I’ve been looking, boy,”_ Bobby said gruffly, _“But, Sam, maybe there’s—”_

“Don’t tell me there’s no hope, Bobby,” The youngest Winchester snapped, “There’s gotta be some way.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, a ragged sigh before finally, _“Okay, Sam. I’ll make a few calls.”_

“Thanks, Bobby.” He hung up, his legs giving way as he practically fell upon the bed. They were staying in a nicer hotel, with soft sheets and plush pillows. In another world, Sam would’ve enjoyed this splurge, having a real Christmas with his brother.

But as it stood right now, all he felt was dread.

“Sam?” Dean stood in the doorway of the room, a bag hanging from his hand.

“You got the stuff?”

Dean grinned, “Christmas presents.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair, frowning, “How can you be so calm?”

“What?”

“Dean,” He turned, meeting his brother’s confused gaze, “What are we doing here?”

His big brother placed the bag on the ground, his gaze hardening, “We’re celebrating Christmas, Sammy.”

“But why?” Sam pressed, “Why should we? We are running out of time—!”

“Enough, Sam—”

The rage consumed the youngest Winchester, a fire that burned in his soul. How many more days would he have if he didn’t save Dean? How would he ever be able to live with himself?

“Maybe you’re okay with burning in Hell, but I’m not, Dean!” 

The fight drained out of Dean’s frame. His tone grew cold, “Shut the fuck up, Sam.” He stepped toward him, “If this is my last Christmas, this is how I want to spend it.”

Words failed the younger brother; tears stung his eyes. He said nothing, storming out of the hotel room. 

* * *

Union Square glittered with lights of all colors. The tree towered above the shoppers below as Christmas Carols filled the air. While there may have been no snow, it was as close to a perfect West Coast Christmas as one would get.

The cheerful spirit in the air felt oppressive to Sam, his chest weighed down by regrets tinged with fear. This wasn’t how he wanted to spend Christmas with his brother. He couldn’t even imagine not having Dean by his side next year.

He’d be an orphan.

“Hot chocolate, sir?”

Sam nearly collided with the young woman selling the cocoa by her colorful stall. She smiled sweetly at him, with her emerald eyes shining.

“Uh . . .”

“On the house,” She insisted, giving him a cup, “You seemed troubled. Hot Chocolate may not solve it, but it can help.”

“Thank you.” He took a sip of the warm liquid, feeling some of the tightness in his chest settle.

“Good luck, Sam.”

But when he turned back to confront her, she was gone, the stand having never existed.

And that’s when Sam knew he was in trouble.

* * *

Physically, he felt fine. No suddenly appearing cuts or bruises. Truly, his head didn’t even ache. Yet, there was only one issue—his voice was gone. He couldn’t speak a word, let alone utter a peep.

“What’s with you?”

Sam couldn’t speak, but reaching for a pen, he attempted to write out the words, only for it to be squiggles. Frowning, he pulled out his phone, only to type gibberish.

“So, what?” Dean frowned, “You’re not talking to me? Childish, isn’t it, Sammy?”

But Sam remained silent and Dean grew angrier.

“Fuck you, Sam.”

His brother turned up the TV, ignoring him.

* * *

He scoured Union Square, growing more and more impatient by the minute.

“Cat got your tongue?” She teased him, peach lips smirking, “You don’t need to answer.”

He frowned, wishing he could shout at her, demand answers.

She sighed, “I only wanted to help,” She insisted softly, “The magic responds to you, Sam. And you, it seems, feel powerless. Voiceless.”

He arched an eyebrow, shrugging.

She chuckled, “I can’t undo it. The magic must run its course.” She took a step to him, placing a soft hand on his cheek, “Find your truth, Sam, and you’ll find your voice, Sam.”

But how could he find his truth? He was the reason Dean was trapped in this deal.

Her gaze softened, “You can do this, Sam. If you couldn’t, they wouldn’t have sent for me.”

He wanted to ask who she referred to, but she vanished with a gust of the winter wind.

* * *

“Sam?”

Dean found him hours later, sitting on the waterfront, the stars sparkling above.

The younger brother met Dean’s gaze, tears stinging his eyes. Sorrow overwhelmed him as the realization occurred—he didn’t know how to save Dean. He was powerless and unable to accept it. He wanted nothing more than to beg a demon for another deal or to break the contract.

But he couldn’t.

“Sammy?”

Tears rolled down his cheek and immediately, Dean held him, rubbing comforting circles on his back like he used to do when they were kids and something had frightened him. His power had always been Dean. Without Dean . . . who was he, really?

“I’ve got you, Sam.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” He managed to choke out, the chains shackling his voice broken, “I want to save you. I just don’t know how.”

He’d been lying to himself, putting on a façade and acting like everything would be well. But in the realization that he had no control over the situation, there was power there. He would reclaim it and be honest with himself.

“I know, Sam,” Dean assured him, “I know.”

Christmas by the Bay wasn’t the ideal Christmas that he’d pictured as a kid. But sitting on that waterfront, his brother’s strong arms shielding him from the overwhelming grief that tried to consume him on a daily basis, Sam realized that it was okay to be afraid.

There would be a time for words later, confessions about what Sam truly felt now that he realized that there was a very real chance of failure. But for right now, he was just a scared little brother, wishing for his big brother to make the darkness go away.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

Sam finally choked out, “Merry Christmas.”

Sadness would give way to determination. Later, he would tell Dean the whole incident about the mysterious woman with the magical hot chocolate, but for now, there was just this.

Just two lost brothers clinging to each other in a lonely world.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, requests close December 1st so get yours in now if you haven’t yet! You can submit to my Tumblr or my AO3!


	3. Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's true that Hell burns, but it's not from hellfire. It's from the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy December 1st! I’m really happy to share this series with you again. Enjoy! Today’s prompt comes for an Anon on Tumblr who asked for, “Sam to get locked in a freezer, and the fact that it's the beginning of winter makes it harder. However, Castiel saves him in time.” Thanks for this anon! I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_“He's gone two thousand miles_

_It's very far_

_The snow is falling down_

_Gets colder day by day.”_

_—The Pretenders, “2000 Miles”_

* * *

In Hell, you burn, but not in the way you expect.

Sure, there’s fire in some pits, but in the deepest recesses of the infernal place, there’s a biting cold. Hell burns, from severe frostbite as your skin dies, turning a horrible black color, the blood in your cells turning solid, oxygen failing to thrive. In Hell, for an eternity, Sam froze, thawed and froze again. Over and over, burning in a most excruciating way. Ever since he got his soul back, the youngest Winchester finds himself needing to dress warmer, wearing more layers than he did before. Scarves, jackets—sometimes even thermals. If Dean noticed, he said nothing, though Sam realized that his big brother kept “stumbling” upon warm clothing items in each shopping trip.

Of course, not even the warmest of clothes could stop Mother Nature. Leaves still fell, even in the warmer states. Storms still came. Even in balmy Florida, rain could still feel like icicles jabbing at his skin. And somehow, through a cruel twist of fate or a horrible joke, Sam found himself in Connecticut, snow drifting down from the grey sky.

_This what you wanted, huh, Sammy? Burning snow?_

He can still hear that sinister laugh ringing in his ears, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Sammy?” His big brother eyes him oddly, a frown on his lips, “You good?”

He is a lot of things—traumatized, freezing, burning, scared—but good is not one of them. Even so, he plasters a smile on his lips and lies, “Yeah.”

_Liar, Sammy. That’s a sin, you know?_

The smile falters such a bit.

* * *

Hunts still go on—supernatural creatures don’t take vacations—and Sam finds that he can just go through the motions on them. Toss salt, shoot creatures, burn bodies—it’s second nature to Sam and his body can just move before his messed-up brain hears Lucifer’s laugh echoing around him.

_Bet you wished you had listened to me before, huh, Sammy?_

The walls are frozen around him. His breath comes in fits, puffs of air fogging up the sole window on the metal door. He’d been following the trail of a ghost when the door slammed behind him, locking him in the walk-in freezer.

_It burns, huh? Good times, Sammy._

Lucifer’s voice never leaves him when he freezes. It’s almost like the wall is broken again, like he’s seeing the Devil everywhere.

“Y-you’re not r-real.”

Lucifer cackles, the sound bounding off the metallic walls.

_Well, I’m not the one dying in the frozen pit, am I?_

Sam’s knees buckle and he slides to the floor, curling in on himself. He doesn’t know where his brother is. His brain can’t keep a single thought in focus for more than a nanosecond. He wants to sleep, to close his eyes and free himself from the biting cold.

“Sam!”

Pounding on the door, a gruff voice that belies his divine nature.

“C-Cas.”

The door rattles, “Sam! The door! There’s a sigil on it!” That would explain the red paint Sam saw when he first arrived in here. Someone knew he was coming.

_It’s a trap and you fell for it!_

“Sam!” The thuds grow louder and more insistent. He must be throwing his whole-body weight against it, trying to get in.

_Won’t do him any good._

Sam’s teeth chatter violently and his eyes fall shut. 

“Sam?”

Fiery hands on his cheek.

“C-Cas?” The angel’s visage swims into view, the concerned man hosting him up.

“Lean on me,” He orders softly, and soon, they are up. Cas winces as they move toward the door, “Stay awake.”

“Y-you’re bl-bleeding.” Sam knows that he must’ve forced the door open and is even now suffering the consequences.

“I’m fine. You’re the one with frostbite.”

Maybe he’s hysterical being on the edge of death, but Sam laughs, coughing and chuckling. He stutters, “C-Cas?”

“Almost there.”

They make it outside, snow drifting around them, the wind howling. Grace cradles his body, healing the worst of the pain. He’s safe, surrounded by those he cares, protected.

“I have you,” Cas whispers softly, a small smile on his lips, “Rest, Sam.”

And Sam does as he’s told, safe in Castiel’s embrace. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be back tomorrow with a new chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is dead and gone and Sam blames himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For sakarrie who requested, “As for prompts if there's still space/time, mine is: s1-2 (or season 11/15 if you wanted to go non-Azazel visions!); Sam gets a vision while stringing some lights and in his lack of awareness is either electrocuted by broken lights or falls and injures himself (depending on what kind of lights you have him putting up. Or you could do both if you want brownie points.”
> 
> I do love brownie points. Enjoy! Set in season 2.

* * *

_“Great_

_Fake plastic Mistletoe_

_Wrap me in a great big bow_

_And tear me apart_

_It's Christmas time_

_So open up the flood gates_

_Tell me that you'll be late_

_And rip me apart_ .”

_—Colbie Caillat, “Mistletoe”_

* * *

John is dead and gone, burned into ashes and given back to the earth.

It hasn’t stopped him from haunting Sam’s memories—words of what he could’ve said, what he should’ve done, constantly ring in his mind. His father is gone though, and nothing will change that.

“You doin’ okay there, son?” Bobby’s gruff voice breaks his reverie and Sam glances down from the tall ladder, the Christmas lights in his hand sagging a bit.

“Fine,” He lies, a tight smile on his lips, “This is my last strand.”

He’s only hung Christmas lights once before, in another life far away from here. Jessica by his side, smiling at him as he stood on a different ladder, adjusting the lights to her suggestions. He hadn’t been a hunter then—hadn’t thought about ghosts for almost two months—but he’d felt a gaping hole in his heart.

But he couldn’t have both worlds. Now, the gaping hole was named Jessica and any thoughts of normalcy were gone, just like his father.

“Be careful up there,” Bobby cautions, “Brother would have my hide if you fell.”

Sam knows that’s a lie. Dean hasn’t talked to him since they came to stay with Bobby, his brother preferring to hide out in the salvage yard, taking his frustrations out on the multiple cars that littered the lot. Maybe Dean blamed him for their father’s death. Sam didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He blamed himself. His last words to his father were ones of anger and he deserved to—

_“Who are you?”_

His vision flickers as pain flares in his temple, the first sign that a vision is coming on.

“Sam?”

He grips the gutter, wincing. He needs to get down before the worst of the vision hits, but he feels so far from his body, so detached and far away.

“Sam!”

He feels himself leaning, his forehead colliding with the gutter, his hand burning as his skin brushes over an exposed wire in the light, as he succumbs to the dark—

_“Who are you?”_

_A young woman, terrified, voice high pitched, tears staining her cheek._

_“Help!”_

—and Sam is gone.

* * *

“Sammy?”

He stirs, his brain screaming for relief as pain sears into his skull. He winces, feeling sick, trying to move only for his body to not respond.

“Easy, son,” Bobby is there, calm voice and steady hands as he holds a phone in his hand, “Ambulance is coming.”

“I don’t need—” He struggles, but a warm hand grips his. Sam’s breath catches as he meets those emerald eyes that he knows so well, “Dean?”

Dean is there, though he looks horrible. Haggard, with deep wrinkles and five o’clock shadow. When was the last time his big brother slept? Sam had been trying to appeal to his brother to no avail, but now, Dean is here, by his side, like nothing ever happened.

“You’re bleeding, Sam,” Dean informs him softly, “You got some Christmas lights in your side.” Sam’s eyes travel downwards and he sees blood blossoming on his shirt, shards of multicolored glass embedded in his skin. Dean huffs out a dry laugh, “Only you could get electrocuted and impaled, Sammy.”

“What?”

“It’s okay,” Dean soothes softly, running a warm hand though his hair, “We’ve got you. Get you all fixed up.”

But nothing can be fixed. John is dead, Sam has visions and some way or another, things are going to come to a horrible conclusion. The youngest Winchester feels his eyes sting, tears welling up.

“It’s okay, son,” Bobby whispers, “They’re coming.”

“Dean?”

“I’m here, Sam,” Dean assures him, smile never faltering, “I’ve got you, baby brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

His brother’s brow furrows, “For what?”

“Dad.”

“Ain’t your fault, Sam,” The eldest Winchester replies, voice tinged with confidence. “We’re gonna figure this out.”

Sam feels himself fading, the world spinning around him into a blur of colors. He struggles to focus on his brother’s face, but soon, he lets go and falls into the dark.

* * *

He awakens to the smell of disinfectant and the steady beeping of a heart monitor.

“You with me?” Dean is by his side, tired, empty cups of coffee by his feet.

“Dean? The lights?”

“You electrocuted and cut yourself, Sam. Never heard Bobby holler so loud for me before.” Dean’s fingers lightly brush over the various bandages around his side, frowning, “You okay?”

“Are you?” Sam presses, “I haven’t seen you since . . .”

_Since Dad died thinking I hated him. Since we moved back here with Bobby. Since we blamed each other for what happened to our family._

“I know,” Dean confesses softly, “I fucked up.” He leans forward, locking eyes with Sam’s. “Dad wasn’t your fault.”

“Dean—” Sam sighs.

“I mean it,” He insists loudly, “We were dealt a crappy hand, okay? We’re all that’s left. We need to stick together.”

Sam wants to protest, to ask why it matters. They are orphans now, still endangering themselves for a world that would never know what they sacrificed to protect it. What was the point of it all?

“You with me, Sam?”

Dean is so earnest though, voice so hesitant and pleading.

“I’m with you, always.”

Sure, there are a lot more things they need to work out, but the pain meds have dulled him, pulling him back toward sleep.

“Rest, Sammy. I’ll be here.”

Sam, for once, does as he’s told. 


	5. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This isn't real," Sam whispers, but the sinister smile on Mary's face never falters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an anon on Tumblr who asked for, “could I request a fic where he’s drugged/loopy?” Thanks for the request! This one was fun to write.

_“So, I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas_

_Mommy and daddy are mad_

_I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas_

_'Cause I ain't been nuttin' but bad.”_

_Relient K, “I’m Getting Nuttin’ For Christmas”_

* * *

Sam knows this isn’t real.

“You want another piece of pie, Sam?” His mother beams before him, warm and bright, just like he saw in the faded pictures in Dean’s journal.

“I’ll take it,” Dean snatches the piece of pie, a smirk on his lips, “Sammy likes his rabbit food.”

John chuckles next to him, shaking his head, “How’d we get such two different kids, Mary?”

It’s a picture-perfect Christmas, like one out of a Hallmark film. Their tree towers above them, lights glittering in pastel shades. John wears a sweater, Mary a dress and even Dean has on a light-up Christmas sweater that blinks at him. Sam doesn’t know how he stumbled into this odd illusion, but he can’t seem to get up from the plush chair he’s seated at.

“We got lucky,” Mary beams, “So lucky.”

“This isn’t real.” Sam whispers, trying to move his legs to no avail.

“John, pass the rolls.”

“Right here, sweetheart.”

“Mom, tell me we’ve got more pie somewhere.”

“I might have made a second one.”

This isn’t his life. He knows it’s not and yet; he wants to let go and embrace the family that he could’ve had if things had been different.

“Sam?” His mother’s warm hand rests on his cheek and he leans into her touch, “You okay, baby?”

He’s never met this woman—he has no memories of her, only faded pictures—but he wants to embrace her and never let her go. All his life, he’s wondered what it would be like to have her in his life. He’s wanted to hear her voice for so long.

“You good, Sam?” Dean questions.

A tear rolls down Sam’s cheek.

This isn’t real, but he wished it was.

* * *

It’s three days until Christmas and all Dean has gotten is a sick little brother.

Sam tosses and turns in Bobby’s guest bedroom, nearly yanking his IV out in the process. He’s been in and out of consciousness for the past two days, the fever spiking and refusing to abate.

“Any change?” Bobby asks softly, their surrogate father frowning.

Dean dabs Sam’s forehead with a damp cloth, wishing he could soothe the pained expression on his face. He sighs, “No. Any luck on finding out what caused this?”

It wasn’t something supernatural that has caused this. No, it was some jerk spiking Sam’s drink at a bar. Dean hadn’t even realized what was happening until Sam started slurring his words after half a drink. Even a lightweight like Sam didn’t feel alcohol’s effects that quickly.

“Police have the guy after an anonymous tip,” Bobby explains, “They have it running in the lab. They think it’s new.”

“Fuck,” Dean curses. He can handle any type of supernatural creature with ease, but humans? He couldn’t piece together what was going on in their minds half the time. Without any further leads, the most they could was ride this out and take Sam to the hospital if the fever didn’t break soon.

Bobby places two fingers against Sam’s neck, feeling his pulse. He nods, “It’s steady.”

“I hate this, Bobby. There’s nothing we can do.”

“I know, son,” He consoles, “But your brother is strong. He’ll pull through.”

Neither of them wanted to consider the alternative. Sam would live.

He had to.

* * *

“What is it?” Mary takes a seat next to him on the plush leather couch. She grins at him, so carefree and joyful.

“This isn’t real,” Sam repeats, “You’re dead.”

Mary sighs, long and drawn out. She glances around the living room, the tree proudly shining, illuminating the room with a magical glow. Her hand holds his and she frowns, “And whose fault is that?”

Sam feels his heart stop, “What?”

“I died because of you, Sam.” Her voice turns sinister as the lights darken, giving the space a gloomy aura.

“No—”

She laughs, malicious, “The demon wanted you, Sam. Not me.” She leans forward, her forehead resting against Sam’s, “Face it, Sammy. You killed your mom.”

Sam opens his mouth in a soundless scream as Mary laughs.

* * *

Christmas Eve and Sam’s fever rests at 103.

Sam moans and Dean frowns, “I’m here, Sammy.”

But Sam can’t hear him and he hasn’t heard him for days. Bobby has gone to get more medicine, but they’re seriously contemplating a hospital run if the fever lingers still in morning.

“M-mom.” Tears roll down his baby brother’s cheeks, liquid that he needs since he’s been a bit dehydrated.

“Mom?” Dean echoes, a gut punch of emotions hitting him, “Sam, you gotta leave her. Come back to us.” He’s never been one for sappy speeches, but he’s willing to try anything to bring his brother back. He holds his baby brother’s clammy hand within his own and squeezes it, “C’mon, Sammy. I’m getting sappy, just like you love. We can have a chick-flick moment. What do you say?”

Sam stirs, but doesn’t awaken.

Dean feels nothing but despair.

* * *

Sam wants to die.

It’s dark and cold and all he can hear is Mary’s ruthless laugh. He’s stuck in the void, trapped, with no escape.

_You killed me, Sam._

“I’it’s not real.”

_You killed your mother._

“Stop!”

A warmth spread through him as a soft voice whispers, _I’m here, Sammy._

“Dean?”

_C’mon, Sammy. I’m getting sappy, just like you love. We can have a chick-flick moment. What do you say?_

Light explodes before him and Sam walks toward it.

He needs to take the risk and escape.

And then he’s gone.

* * *

Sam’s eyes fly open, dazed, “Dean?”

“Sammy? You with me?” Dean leans forward, resting his palm against his brother’s forehead. The fever is finally broken and Dean feels relief slam into him.

“Dean, I heard you.” Sam stirs a bit, but the energy quickly drains out of him.

“Welcome back, Sam,” Dean smiles, tears of joy pricking at his eyes. His brother will still need to recover, but for now, this is a good start, “And Merry Christmas.”

Sam falls asleep, peaceful and mild.

And so does Dean.


	6. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I took the weekend off since I was drowning in real life work. I’m back with a prompt from Kristin Moore, who requested, “While on a solo hunt, Sam slips on some ice and hits his head. Luckily, Castiel manages to find him and get him to a hospital. I know you like bonds between Sam and Cas.” You know me too well! I adore writing Sam and Cas friendship. Please enjoy this chapter! Set in season five (during that quick time period where Sam and Dean weren’t talking to each other). Trigger warning: this chapter deals with suicidal ideation.

* * *

_“So much emotion, it's driving me mad, yeah_

_But I'll take my chances with these feelings that I have_

_And I'll come back to this same corner where we met_

_And I'll be here every year, every Christmas.”_

_—Luther Vandross, “Every Year, Every Christmas”_

* * *

In some ways, spending Christmas alone isn’t a new experience for Sam. He spent nearly four Christmases away from his family when he’d been at school. For two of those, he’d had Jessica by his side, but even her beautiful smile couldn’t help fill the hole in his heart that his family left.

Even now, five years later, Sam finds being alone disconcerting. Of course, right now, he’s away from the only family he has left to prevent the apocalypse that he unleashed. Really, it’s all his fault. This is, all things considered, a punishment much too gentle for the likes of him. If anyone ever found out what he had done, they wouldn’t think twice about killing him.

_What’s dead should stay dead, Sam._

John’s voice mocked him as he stepped further into the snowy forest. Holding his shotgun aloft, Sam tried to banish his father’s voice from his mind. He needed to be focused, especially while he was hunting on his own, tracking a wendigo. One rogue mistake could be fatal. Not that Sam particularly minded. If he died, the apocalypse would be ended. Sam would be doing what he should’ve done when he died nearly three years ago.

_What’s dead should stay dead, Sam._

He never wanted to be brought back to life. He never wanted to lose his brother in order to keep his own life. He hadn’t wanted to become a demon blood addict and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to start the apocalypse.

But, what did they say? The road to Hell was paved with good intentions.

In Sam’s case, quite literally.

“Focus.”

He had to keep his mind sharp. What mattered right now was stopping the wendigo. If he failed, more people would die and he couldn’t have any more blood on his hands. Saving these people wouldn’t ease his guilt, but he could try to at least put something good out into the world.

And if he died in the process—

Lucifer would just bring him back.

He hears a twig snap and turns, raising his gun high. He waits, holding his breath, but no other movement occurs. Sighing, Sam takes a step forward and his word tilts, as he lands flat on his back, his hand slamming against some ice.

Darkness.

* * *

_“Lose my number.”_

_“Pick a hemisphere.”_

_“This is all your fault!”_

_Sam can’t escape their voices. Curled up into a ball, he wishes he could just disappear. If he hadn’t been born, none of this would’ve happened. He should’ve ended his life when he knew the truth that John and Dean had been keeping._

_“What’s dead should stay dead, Sam.”_

_He was a monster, tainted with demon blood and destined to be the antichrist. No matter how much he struggled against his fate, he could never escape it. He’d spent a few years free at Stanford, but even that ended up in flames._

_Literally._

_Maybe he could just stay in the dark._

* * *

Castiel frowns as he feels a change in the air.

Something is off. He knows that Dean and Sam have parted and while he can still sense Dean, he can no longer sense Sam. Worry gnaws at him. Sam may have started the apocalypse, but Castiel knew that it hadn’t been on purpose. They’d all been tricked down this path.

He blinks and when he opens his eyes, he’s in the middle of a forest, Sam’s broken body splayed out before him.

“Sam!”

There’s blood staining the snow a twisted shade of pink and Castiel feels panic.

“Sam? Sam, can you hear me?” He can’t afford to expend too much grace here. With Heaven so unstable, he needs to conserve in case there’s an emergency.

Sam’s body flops limply as Castiel rolls him into his arms. He knows that he shouldn’t move a human with a head wound, but the angel feels compelled to hold the man, to offer some comfort to the tortured soul.

Sam’s eyes flutter open, pupils wide and unfocused.

“D-die?”

Castiel’s heart breaks, “No, Sam, you are not going to die.” Sam frowns, actually disappointed. The angel questions, “Can you move?”

Sam pushes against him, albeit weakly, “Go’way, Cas.”

“I will not forsake you,” He growls, wishing that Dean were here. The eldest Winchester know the right things to say and how to ease Sam’s pain. Yet, Dean was gone, having given up on trying to fix their relationship. Castiel expends a little grace, just enough to seal the wound on Sam’s head. He sighs, “We need to get moving.”

“Cas—”

He hoists Sam up, using his own body as a crutch to keep the youngest Winchester upright. He moves forward, pushing through the snow, hoping to find the car that Sam must’ve brought. He doesn’t remember many of his driving lessons from Dean, but Castiel is certain that he can at least get them to the main road and seek help.

“Sam.” He waits for the youngest Winchester to give him his full attention, “You don’t deserve death. You don’t deserve this cruel fate.”

Sam huffs out a dry laugh, “Fate . . .”

“I mean it, Sam,” Castiel spies the outline of the car, “Things may seem dire now, but surely—” He doesn’t know what to say to make things better. He isn’t sure how to even approach things in order to fix things.

Still, he knows now that he is committed to fixing things.

“Cas?” Sam slumps, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head and suddenly, he has the full weight of Sam’s body against him. He struggles, but he knows he needs to use grace. In a flutter of wings, they’re in the lobby of a hospital and Sam is being whisked away.

* * *

_“You’re calling?”_ Dean’s gruff voice filters through, _“Didn’t know if you knew how to use one.”_

Castiel frowns, “Sam is in the hospital, Dean.”

Silence.

The angel continues, “He’s getting an MRI right now. The doctors are worried about a brain hemorrhage.” He sighs, “I couldn’t afford to use all my grace just in case—”

The line goes dead.

* * *

He’s admitted into Sam’s room in the ICU a few hours later.

The doctor calls it a miracle, stating that there’s no brain bleed or any bruises. The ICU is simply a precaution, though Cas worries that the situation could become worse. Sam stirs, and Cas stiffens.

“Sam?”

Sam opens his eyes, wincing at the light, “Cas?”

Castiel nods, standing at Sam’s bedside, “I’m here. Are you well?”

“Headache.”

Cas smiles wearily, “That is to be expected.”

“Dean?” Sam’s finds the answer in the angel’s gaze and he frowns, “Yeah. Merry Christmas.”

“Sam—”

Sam dismisses him with a wave, “S’kay, Cas. My own fault.”

Footsteps echo down the hall and Dean bursts into the room, breath ragged, “Sammy?” The eldest Winchester charges into the room, quickly going to his brother’s bedside.

“Dean?”

Dean smiles softly, “I’m here.”

A soft refrain of “Hark The Herald Angels Sing” filters into the room and the Christmas lights in the hall twinkle.

There’s much the two of them will need to speak of, but it’s clear, family has triumphed. He turns to give them some space.

“Cas?” He stops, turning back to Sam’s grateful gaze, “Thanks.”

Castiel just smiles, “Merry Christmas Sam.”

And then he’s gone. 


	7. Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only, as she steps into the foyer of the bunker, the sight of blood greets her. 
> 
> And Rowena’s heart sinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt comes from Pennywise552 who requested, “A faction of demons despise Rowena being Queen. They know Sam is her favorite. Have fun!” I did have way too much fun writing this. Thanks!

* * *

_“Season's greetings, hope you're well_

_Well I'm doing alright_

_If you were wondering_

_Lately I can never tell.”_

_—Taylor Swift, “Christmases When You Were Mine”_

* * *

Rowena may be the fierce queen of Hell, but occasionally, she does step out of her domain, able to go above to the mortal realm. Her trips are few and far between—simply because of the sheer amount of magic it takes to facilitate them—but she does enjoy visiting with Sam and Dean and mothering them when she can. She’d considered herself somewhat evil but when she went through what she did with the Winchesters, things changed.

She’s technically dead, but such things don’t hold sway in Hell. As Queen, she’s able to access powers that can defy death, albeit temporarily. So, she makes a point to visit during the holidays.

Only, as she steps into the foyer of the bunker, the sight of blood greets her.

And Rowena’s heart sinks.

She knows Dean is out of town, tying up a loose end for some girl named “Charlie” but Sam had decided to stay behind to greet her.

“Sam?”

Only, Sam isn’t here.

A million thoughts rush through her head, but she forces herself to breathe and focus. Sam isn’t here and there are signs of a struggle. While the Winchesters had many enemies, few could get into the bunker easily. No, this kidnapping would have to be someone who knew the Winchesters and how to defeat the bunker’s charms. Someone like her, who knew magic well and could dispel the protective charms. Someone with a grudge against Sam in particular—

—or maybe not Sam at all.

Smeared in the blood is one single word, _“Favorite.”_

She knows who has done this. With a wave of her hand, she opens a portal and steps through to the other side. The warmth of Hell greets her, but as her boot click down the marble halls, she wears nothing of the confident queen she portrays.

“Your Majesty?”

She rushes past her courtier, paying them no mind.

The closer to the center of Hell you get, the colder it gets. Few demons enjoy being down here, which is why it proves to be such a popular hiding place for dissatisfied factions. Rowena knows that her takeover of Hell was still new and fragile. Some demons resented her for it and resisted her. Still, she had thought she’d crushed the seeds of rebellion long ago.

Apparently not. 

“And lo, the fool hardy queen comes to save her beloved!” A voice mocks her, but her eyes are drawn to the broken figure sprawled out on the floor. Blood stains his shirt crimson, his skin as pale as snow. Rowena spares no look to the fool who dares to speak to her—she snaps her finger, summons her demon blade and plunges it into the chest of the rogue demon, ensuring its painful death. 

The rest of the group catches on quickly, but Rowena is numb to the onslaught as she whips her sword around, killing any that stand in the way of rescuing Sam. When they’re all dead, their mangled corpses fallen to the ground, Rowena rushes to Sam’s side. He’s such a tall, big man, but with the help of some magic, she easily lifts him, his head lolling aimlessly.

“I’ve got you, Sam, dearie,” She whispers, more to reassure herself than him, “Let’s get you patched up, shall we?”

She forces a smile onto her ruby lips, though her voice trembles.

* * *

In a way, she’s able to detach herself from the trauma of taking care of Sam.

Back at the bunker, she carefully examines him—ten stab wounds, two broken ribs, more bruises than she can count—and tenderly dresses his wounds. It’s clear that was tortured, perhaps to hurt her, perhaps to get information about her from him, but she knows Sam.

He wouldn’t have broken.

That would’ve infuriated his captors, which would explain why they were so sadistic, even for demons. Her heart breaks for him, her friend, her ally. She’s called Dean and informed Castiel, though they’re being careful on the way back—taking extra precautions and buying new supplies to redo the wards.

Which leaves her with an unconscious Sam.

She hums to him, faded Christmas carols that she can recall from her time as a human or ones that she heard from the radio. He stirs sometimes, awakes in a haze of pain, but his eyes never show any awareness. She just smiles at him, calms him and lets him sleep.

Guilt eats away at her. Had she been so obvious with her affection for the youngest Winchester? Was she letting her emotions show? She wanted to be a strong queen, one that could Hell united for a millennium and yet, she failed to even keep one human safe.

“I’ve failed you, _m'eudail_ ,” She whispers, running a hand through his hair, her natural Gaelic language slipping into her voice.

What could she do now that the Winchesters had changed her?

_The grinch’s heart grew three sizes._

She huffs a laugh, wondering just when heart had changed.

“Rowena?” Clear eyes stare upwards at her.

“Sam?” She gapes, her hand resting against his warm cheek, “Are you with me, _a thasgaidh_?”

“Think so,” He replies, wincing, “Hurts.”

“I know,” She tells him, “They’re dead, Sam.” Softly, she adds, “And I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, he grabs her hand within his own and smiles.

And all is right with her world.

Outside, snow begins to fall once more.


	8. Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I’ve been finishing work up before the holiday break. Here’s a request from enigmalynne who asked for, “Set to post-Lucifer rising but maybe after the boys get back together? They get into a fight about something on Christmas Eve, and Sam storms out of the hotel room. He’s hurting and angry... and doesn’t notice it until after it’s already too late. When he wakes up, he has no idea where he is. All he knows is he has been stripped down to his undershirt and jeans, he’s freezing, and he isn’t alone. “Merry Christmas, Devil Boy,” a voice says. “You’re brother ain’t gonna get you out of this one.” He has enough time to think about how his brother probably gave up on him again and he’s on his own anyway before the first blow connects.” Thanks so much for this request! I had a blast writing it. 
> 
> TW: for torture, suicidal ideation.

* * *

_“Isn’t funny that at Christmas something in you gets so lonely for I don’t know what exactly, but it’s something that you don’t mind so much not having at other times.”_

_—Kate L. Bosworth_

* * *

It had been a stupid fight, one that Sam regretted in hindsight. A dumb fight about nothing important that tore their fragile bond apart once again. Dean had said some things, he’d shouted some back and before Sam knew it, he was gone, leaving his furious brother behind in their shared hotel room.

_You're sorry you started Armageddon? This kind of thing don't get forgiven, boy. If by some miracle, we pull this off, I want you to lose my number. You understand me?_

Sam hated himself. He woke up every day wishing he had just stayed dead three years ago. John had taught them, “What’s dead stays dead” for a reason. Why had Dean abandoned that mantra just for his sake?

_I just don't... I don't think that we can ever be what we were. You know? I just don't think I can trust you._

If there were a way for Sam to stop all of this, he would. If he wasn’t sure that Lucifer would bring him back, he would’ve blown his brains out months ago—that being said, Sam had tried a few things, but Lucifer’s laughter rang in his ears whenever he woke up in the aftermath of whatever attempt he made.

And now, it was Christmas Eve and all the blissful families unaware of their fate would gather around for what could be their last Christmas.

It was Sam’s fault.

All of it.

_Same song, different verse. Things are never gonna change with you. Never._

So, what did it all add up to? One self-hating Winchester out in the cold on Christmas Eve.

“Damn.” He sighed, raggedly, running a hand through his hair. He’d been walking for about twenty minutes, down the dirt road that led away from the motel. Turning on his heel, the youngest Winchester decided to slowly make his way back toward his brother, hoping the time apart would’ve cooled Dean’s head as well.

“Got you.”

And that’s the last thing Sam heard before the blast of pain that exploded across his temple.

* * *

“Ah, Sam, what a pickle you’ve got yourself in now,” Lucifer sighed dramatically, smirking as he met the youngest Winchester’s gaze, “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just gave up the charade.”

Sam glared at the devil, “Get out of my head.”

“All in due time, but to tell the truth, you’re not gonna like what’s happening to you out there.” He cocked his head to the side, the smirk never fading.

“Fuck you.”

Lucifer just laughed, warm and bright, “Have fun then, Sam.”

And Sam awakened to searing pain.

* * *

The cuts to his arms were superficial, but they still hurt like a bitch. Crimson blood dribbled down his arm, collecting into a puddle below. He was restrained by chains doused in holy water, a demon proofing sigil below him. Two grizzled hunters regard him—who else would know who he was?—and one of them smiles sinisterly.

“Merry Christmas, Devil Boy,” he chuckled “You’re brother ain’t gonna get you out of this one.”

Sam knew that Dean wouldn’t come. Given their history, Dean would think Sam had just bailed on him once more, chalk it all up to his previous bad choices and move on. And maybe, deep down, that was what Sam really wanted—to be forgotten by his brother, to know that Dean would not make the same mistake he made when he chose his baby brother’s life over his own three years ago.

“What? He ain’t gonna talk?” The other hunter questions sharply.

The first, the bearded one with hazel eyes shrugs, “Who cares. We’re doing the Lord’s work here.”

“Fuck the Lord,” the other hissed, “I don’t give a damn about that. I want the bounty.”

Sam pulled against the chains—tight and unyielding. His captors noticed his vain struggle and the first laughed, “Boy, you’re gonna die here.”

And then he plunged the knife into Sam’s shoulder.

* * *

Sam stood in the middle of a field, the wind blowing on his face, an ever-blue sky stretching above him endlessly.

“Blacked out, huh, Sam?” Lucifer sat next to him, the devil idly picking at some grass.

“Why can’t you just let me die?” The words came out as an agonized whisper and for one second, Sam swore he could see pity flash across the devil’s face.

“Why couldn’t God just accept me?” Lucifer shrugged, “We both got screwed by fate, Sam. Sooner you realize that, the better you’ll be.”

Sam shook his head, one syllable falling from his lips, “No.”

Lucifer just sighed, “Glutton for punishment then.”

He snapped his fingers.

* * *

Sam was woozy from the blood loss, his under shirt wet and sticky from a combination of sweat and blood coating his chest. He felt cold, almost numb even and can barely make out what the two hunters were saying.

“Son of a bitch is still alive.”

“He’s the fucking devil, you really thought it would be that easy?”

A gun was placed to his temple, cool metal that reminded him of childhood days, of a brown leather jacket that smelled like gunpowder that he used as a blanket, of a soft voice that told him, “I’ve got you, Sammy.”

Those days were gone.

Gone forever.

“Kill me,” He managed to say through cracked lips, “Just do it already.”

Maybe—maybe if he wasn’t the one pulling the trigger—he would stay dead.

A flutter of wings interrupted his thought and he heard two thuds. The chains were released and he sunk forward, warm hands catching him.

“Sam.” Castiel seemed almost worried, those cerulean eyes sparkling with emotion.

“Cas.” He huffed out a laugh that dissolved into a wet cough, blood coming to his lips.

“You’re hurt,” the angel lowered him down gently to the floor, leaning him against the chair, “You were . . . tortured?”

Sam tried to shrug, but his body was floating and he feared the motion was too sloppy for Cas to understand.

“Let me die,” He whispered, “Go.” He shoved the angel, though it was pathetic really since he had the current strength of a three-day kitten.

Cas shook his head, “Sam, you don’t—”

“Don’t tell me I don’t mean it!” If there was one thing Sam had clarity in regards to, it was this. The world would be a lot better without Sam Winchester in it. He mustered up a smile, “Dean won’t do it. But, you can, Cas.”

Castiel said nothing for a moment.

“Sam Winchester,” He growled, “You are my friend. You’ve taught me that you don’t give up on those you care for,” He touched Sam’s forehead, a bit of grace patching up some of the biggest wounds, “And I will not forsake you. Nor will Dean or Bobby.”

“Cas—”

“I will hear no more of this foolishness,” Castiel lifted him to his feet, supporting the tall man, “You need medical attention.”

Sam takes that as his cue to pass out.

* * *

He awakened later in a spare bedroom at Bobby’s.

“Sammy?” Dean appeared haggard, a five o’clock shadow on his face, “You with me?”

His head ached, the ceiling spinning a bit as he turned, his eyes resting on his brother’s face, “D’n?”

Dean leaned over him, a hand tenderly pressed on his baby brother’s cheek, “Jesus Christ, Sammy.”

“Cas?”

“He told me,” Dean confessed, “Sam, when you’re better, we’re gonna talk.”

Sam was too tired to protest. He knew there would be more arguments, more feelings of guilt and self-loathing, but for now, he has his brother by his side, Bobby in the other room and Castiel standing guard somewhere.

“Okay,” Sam breathed, “Okay.”

Things wouldn’t be fixed tomorrow or the next day. But as he fell asleep, faded Christmas music on the radio, he wondered if maybe they would find a way to pull this off. 

* * *

Lucifer cackled in his dreams, “Merry Christmas, Sam.”


	9. Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next request comes from McGeeklover who requested, “Kid Sam 14 Dean 18. It’s a day away from Christmas John and Sam get into another fight (maybe about Christmas or school or being late) and Sam runs off. It starts snowing really bad out and he gets lost. Dean had been driving around for hours trying to find him and there’s something supernatural that “tells” him where to go and he finds Sam in the snow nearly frozen to death, he’s barely breathing and dying. Rushes him to the hospital, Sam almost doesn’t make it. Dean is livid at John and John is feeling guilty, mostly because the doctors found a small present curled/frozen in his hand(you can decide what it is but it’s something John had wanted) and that’s why Sam was late from school. John is devastated that his cruel words are the last thing he said to his son who is now dying. The supernatural thing that had saved Sam before shows up and the next day Sam wakes up and John apologizes.”

_“For Christmas is tradition time—_

_Traditions that recall_

_The precious memories down the years,_

_The sameness of them all.”_

— _Helen Lowrie Marshall_

* * *

Sam can’t feel his fingers.

That’s not what worries him. He’s dressed somewhat warmly, having stormed out of their current house in a huff after he got into yet another fight with his father.

_Stop saying you want to be normal! This is your normal! You’re a hunter, Sam!_

What worries him is that the snow is falling harder, blinding him as the wind howls, cutting deep into his skin.

How did Christmas Eve get so fucked up? All he wanted was to buy his family a nice—re: not stolen—present. He wanted to wrap it, make it look all pretty like he saw other families exchange. Just a token of normalcy, a moment of being a kid on Christmas with his family.

_But Dad—_

_Say another word and you’ll regret it, Sam!_

He left then, running away, out into the cold, sprinting as fast as he could into the nearby woods. He didn’t realize just how far he’d gone until he turned around and no longer recognized the trail that he took.

His lungs are freezing. It hurts to suck into a breath. He sinks to his knees, snow serving as his blanket.

And then he’s gone.

* * *

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean turns the wheel, spinning the car around, taking another dirt road toward the forest. It had been almost an hour since Sam fled into the snow after John chewed him out for coming home late from school.

_He’ll come back, Dean, when he’s done sulking._

But the snow picked up and the wind grew colder and Dean felt something in him that compelled him to get into the car and find his little brother.

But an hour had passed and Dean couldn’t find any sign where his brother wandered off too.

“Sammy, where are you?”

He’s terrified of losing his baby brother. He should’ve spoken up, should’ve told John to keep his fucking mouth shut and defended his baby brother. But, like so many times before, Dean froze, powerless in the face of his father.

And now Sam could die—could already be dead—and Dean felt so damn powerless.

_Please. God. Anyone. I need to find my brother._

There’s no answer. Of course not. A tear rolls down his cheek and he wipes it away. He can’t give up.

“Then don’t.” A voice that sounds like melodic music echoes in the Impala. The wheel begins to turn, the ghost of warm fingers resting on top of his, guiding him. The car drives down an unmarked path and then stops suddenly.

A vision of a woman in white, with a warm smile and kind eyes tells him, “Go.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He jumps out of the car, rushing out.

“Sam!”

He finds his brother half buried under the snow, pale and frozen. He pulls his baby brother into his arms, trying to rouse him. Sam’s head lolls, eyes shut and Dean’s heart sinks. Holding Sam close to his chest, he rushes back to the car.

* * *

The car ride is a blur of panic and fear.

* * *

“Dean.”

Dean glowers, staring at his father’s bruised face, his own fist aching somewhat. He punched him as soon as he came into the waiting room, anger so blinding and consuming.

“Here’s why he was late,” Dean tosses a small folklore book at his father.

John recognizes it, frowning, “He remembered?”

The last time he saw his son, he cursed him out. He spoke in rage and now Sam was dying into the other room. The father crumples, sinking to the floor as grief consumes him.

He can’t lose his youngest. He will do better. He has to!

_Another chance. Please._

The doctor calls them forward and John holds his breath.

* * *

“What are you?” Sam asks the beautiful lady in white by his bedside. She’s not human, for a few nurses have come into the room and none had noticed her. She hummed a soft tune, one that he couldn’t place.

She beams, placing a warm hand against his cheek, “I am simply one that comes when needed.”

“An angel?”

“No, child,” She says softly, chuckling, “Much older.”

Sam furrows his brow, “Then, what—”

“Hush, child,” A spark of magic flickered from her finger, lulling him into a comfortable sleep, “Merry Christmas.”

Her song follows him into the void.

* * *

Sam’s alive.

John can breathe once more.

He lets Dean visit him first, and then after composing himself, John went to the room.

“Dad?” Sam sits up on the bed, his brother holding his hand tightly, a warning to John.

_Don’t mess with my kid._

John nods, understanding the message. He smiles at his youngest, “Hey, Sam.”

Sam beams, “Hi.”

The words tumble out, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted like that.” It’s an inadequate apology, but right now, it’s all he can manage as the relief consumes him. He will be a better father. He will make sure this is the last Christmas they spend in a hospital room.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

Sam smiles and it feels like the sun has finally emerged after a storm, “Merry Christmas.”

Dean laughs and John finds himself chuckling as well.

* * *

Outside, the woman in white grins once more before vanishing into the air, like she was never there in the first place. 


End file.
